In your debt
by ImplicationsProblematic
Summary: "It seemed absurd that he- who was at heart, still a bumbling Fereldan farmboy- was ever to teach her anything." This stemmed from the idea that Difficult!Trevelyan has never ridden a horse. Originally this was a sort of 'things Cullen and Trevelyan taught each other' fic but it ended up a pre-relationship semi-angsty, sort of fluffy mess. First ever DA
1. Chapter 1

**_The style of this turned out rather strange, but I'm vaguely content with it and please just take it away from me so it can stop getting in the way of the Mass Effect stuff I have going- not to mention actual work._**  
 ** _The title is dreadful but it's the best I can come up with at 12:48am._**

 ** _..._**

It seemed absurd that he- who was at heart, still a bumbling Fereldan farmboy- was ever to teach _her_ anything. Second born of house Trevelyan and Herald of Andraste to boot; clearly a powerful Mage and a natural, if reluctant, leader. Rank aside, he never would have guessed there was anything she could learn from him. He certainly hadn't planned to add this element to their... Well, he wouldn't exactly call it a 'friendship'.

Trevelyan was away from Haven near constantly- and in the few days she spent there, he saw her almost exclusively at war councils. She would fidget frustratedly, ill at ease under the pressure of her title. The Herald was often prickly and, at times, downright obstinate in the face of her advisors' council. Sometimes she would cut sessions short, vanishing into solitude for a few hours, after which she would reconvene their meeting, usually- though not always- ready with something that could just about be called an apology. Competent? Yes. Decisive? Certainly. But also rather difficult and, he found through their limited interaction, more than a little bewildering.

The latest manifestation of this was her apparent reluctance to resolve the matter of the Hinterlands horse master and the Inquisition's prospective mounts. Her party had made multiple trips to the area since she had accepted his suggestion, often passing close to Redcliffe farm- nevertheless, Master Dennet was yet to be approached.

The Inquisition _needed_ those mounts. Their current horses were few in number and better suited to pulling light carts than any serious use; the sorry creatures simply weren't up to the scale of work demanded of them. She **had** to be aware of this. So far she had declined a mount and travelled only by foot- presumably because she knew even the best horses they had to offer were more akin to a hindrance than help.

It could not go on.

Cullen found her, of all places, in a corner of the Chantry attic. Doubtless, he would have failed to do so without guidance from Leliana who, naturally, knew all of Trevelyan's hideaways. Startled by the discovery of her sanctuary, she hurriedly stood, closing her book- Varric's infernal _Tale of The Champion_ he noted with an internal sigh. Novice recruits and altered rotations had seen to it that his day had been long and tiresome, so he was perhaps a little sharp when he all but demanded to know why she was yet to visit the horse master. Instantly, she stiffened and looked away from him, pointlessly but _pointedly_ rearranging the crates she had been nestled between. There were, she claimed, other tasks demanding her focus in the area at present. When he tersely pointed out that she had sealed all of the rifts in the Hinterlands **and** cleared the area of both apostates and Templars, the Herald snapped her head back to him to fix him with a glare, angrily insisting that, whether it suited him to believe it or not, there were many concerns of importance for her to deal with, not just his _'military chest pounding'._ Cullen snorted in derision at that and asked how exactly lost livestock, prize winning though they may be, took precedence over their troops.

They stood in silence for a moment, mirroring each other's hard glares and folded arms. At last, she sighed and slumped down onto a crate. The fire behind her eyes was dimmed, though not extinguished- _never_ extinguished. Her sudden dejection took him aback and left him, he noticed with a small amount of annoyance, feeling rather guilty for having snapped at her so. This intensified when she let her head fall into her hands, supported on her knees; there was something more going on here.

Hesitantly, he perched on a crate opposite her and asked, without any particular subtlety, if there was more to her obstinacy than she was letting on. Trevelyan looked up at him briefly, then quickly down at her hands. He didn't catch her next words the first time, when she muttered them down at her lap. Only when she repeated herself through gritted teeth, flushing a little and glaring at the rafters, did he learn the truth; she had never ridden.

He had not been expecting that. His mouth may even have dropped open a little in surprise, but she gave him no time to speak anyway, instantly launching into a whirlwind explanation he suspected she had run through many times in her head, but never aloud. When she was a young child, she explained, she had been frightened of horses. Her family would have eventually insisted ( after all, the Trevelyan crest quite prominently featured a rearing stallion- he smiled a little at that, earning a glare), but she had been taken to the Ostwick circle at seven. Ironically, it had been her fear of horses that had led to her powers first manifesting. Her brothers- one four years her senior and a proficient rider, the other a year younger than her but already promising- had been teasing her about her fear. She had, she said with a sigh, become so upset that she had inadvertently set a tapestry alight. She had been taken by the Templars (Cullen tensed at her obvious contempt for the order) that afternoon and of course had no opportunity, or indeed desire, to ride during her nineteen years in the Circle. Her journey to the Conclave had, thankfully, been by carriage and boat.

Trevelyan fell silent, staring down at her loosely clenched fists. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, not knowing what to say, but she spoke again before he found words.

She knew, she said as she flushed an even deeper pink, it was ' _ridiculous_ ' and ' _pathetic_ ', - that it couldn't go on, but she had simply been to mortified by the prospect of admitting that _The Herald of Andraste,_ whom so many were pinning their hopes on, was in fact ' _incompetent_ '.

Neither of them spoke for a while, both meditating on her revelation. At last she groaned into her hands and looked up at him. With a sigh she conceded that she understood he would have to reveal her 'absurd shortcoming' to Cassandra and the others.

Cullen paused, an idea- potentially ludicrous- forming. Quietly, he told her that he saw no reason for her secret to be spread further, that he could, perhaps, if she wanted- _only_ if she wanted, he stressed as he babbled- teach her. They could practice at night, at a distance from the village and no one would have to know.

He offered a calm gaze that he hoped displayed his sincerity as she scanned his face, seemingly searching for some sign that this was a trick, that he was mocking her. Not for the first time, he wondered quite what had made her so defensive- but then nineteen years in the circle was a _long_ time. When she finally whispered an incredulous "You would do that?" He simply nodded and suggested that they start that night. Trevelyan blinked at him, apparently stunned, and agreed with a silent nod of her own. He asked her to meet him at the stables an hour after dinner was served in the Chantry and excused himself, giving a build up of reports as his reason. Cullen considered adding that he did not think she had any reason to be ashamed and that her situation, though not ideal, was understandable, but his offer already seemed to have knocked her for six. Further kindness, however minor, may well have induced a total lack of consciousness.

He left her there in the attic, already wondering if this had been a terrible idea.

...

A considerable part of him expected the Herald not to turn up. Pride and shame were powerful forces- he knew that all too well. He would wait, he rationalised, half an hour and if she didn't show... Well, he might be slightly irritated, but not surprised.

By now he really should have known better than to try to predict her actions. Trevelyan was already outside the stable, fidgeting with her hair as she paced in the snow. When he cleared his throat to announce his presence, she very nearly jumped in alarm. Even that first day after the explosion, he had never seen her so... Nervous.

He tried to summon a small, but comforting smile but found the muscles of his face protested, simply too long out of practice. She followed him into the stables, but lingered by the door. He thought for a moment as he stroked the nose of a mare that the stable master had assured him- a little confusedly- was the calmest mount they had. She shuffled closer when he turned to her in question, but kept some distance from the horse. He resolved to risk her annoyance and asked, hopefully without sounding judgemental, if she was still uncomfortable around horses. As expected, she bristled and dismissed it as though he had asked if she was scared of a monster under her bed. Cullen apologised and said that she simply seemed out of sorts. She sighed and admitted that, she was _perhaps_ a little... ' _Uncertain'_ around themthem. It took some coaxing, but at last she was comfortable stroking the mare, grooming her and even feeding her by hand. She observed that it was actually quite calming and he agreed, finding a smile came to him surprisingly easily that time. What was more alarming was that it was returned.

After maybe an hour they called it a night, arranging to meet again the following evening. The walk back to the Chantry was more than a little awkward and mostly silent, but the time they spent in the stables had been remarkably relaxed.

They didn't say goodnight, they simply nodded and parted ways and the next day at the war council things were no different between them.

...

The Herald was due to leave for the Storm Coast in a week. It was to be a long journey and to travel on foot would have been ludicrous. The next night when they met again she told him, with that familiar nervous agitation, that she **had** to be able to ride by then. She seemed surprised when he said that he saw no reason why that wouldn't be possible, apparently expecting him to shut her down. Self-doubt was a strange shade on Trevelyan; usually so assured and confident. He simply tossed her a saddle from a nearby rack (she stumbled a little under the surprise weight) and said they had better get started.

Each night for the next week, they took a horse each from the stables and led them a short distance from the village. Trevelyan took the calm mare each time, apparently having taken a shine to it. It would not be the best mount for long distance travel, but it was progress. When he led his own mount out, she barked a short laugh and rolled her eyes. _"A white charger? Seriously, oh brave Ser Knight?"_ He frowned at her mockery, but found his heart wasn't in it.

Unsurprisingly, she quickly became frustrated when she struggled initially. But if she was quick-tempered, she was every bit as determined. She took a couple of tumbles from the saddle and, more to his bemusement than offence, always resolutely refused his offer of a hand back to her feet. But, on the whole, Trevelyan was no worse than many of the fresh faced recruits he had to deal with. Centuries of noble breeding had gifted her with effortlessly fine posture- though he still had to nag her about bringing her ankles into line with her shoulders.

By the end of the week, they were taking proper rides, even managing to take tentative gallops. The gratitude she expressed the night before her party set out was not necessarily warm, but it was definitely sincere and that was enough to for him.

He was leading a training exercise when she returned with her party and the mercenary company she'd left to seek out. Hair streaming behind her, the Herald rode up to the village as though she had been born in the saddle ( though her ankles were perhaps still a little out of line) . She was laughing heartily at something the large Qunari mercenary leader had said, making Cullen wonder if she was beginning to grow more comfortable in her new life, or she had always been more relaxed when away on missions. He turned back to the training session as a recruit, who seemed to have never even heard of a shield, clattered to the floor. He was reminding the youngster that there was a shield in his hand and he should think about using it, when the Herald led her mare past him with a quiet "Commander" and the hint of a smile.

' _Huh_ ,' he mused, shaking his head with his own barely there smile as he turned back to the troops- still bemused that he had taught this proud, capable woman anything... Or perhaps that she had _let_ him.

...


	2. Chapter 2

_**"Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. "**_  
 _ **"Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear,"**_  
 _ **-Mary Shelley**_

...

He would never have predicted the first thing that Trevelyan was to teach _him_.

About two months after her return from the Storm Coast, Cullen found himself alone with her in the war room. Josephine was, yet again, dealing with Chancellor Roderick's melodrama- something she was fast becoming well practiced at. Regardless, this time was taking longer than usual so Leliana had gone to investigate, leaving Trevelyan and Cullen alone in a profoundly awkward silence.

Deciding he could only fiddle with troop markers for so long, he eventually remarked- just to end the infernal quiet- that her riding had improved impressively. The blush colouring her cheeks was just as surprising as it had been that day in the attic. She thanked him again, more warmly than she had done previously. He felt a small tingle of pride when she remarked that she had a good teacher. He found himself assuring her that it had been no trouble, though this was not strictly true, and her arched brow said plainly that she saw through him. The biggest smile he had seen from her (though still small) softened her features as she told him, stumbling a little over her words, that she was in his debt. He would never be sure whether the streak of boldness was due to divine intervention, sheer idiocy or the surreal situation he was in, but he found himself smiling broadly in return and saying that he was certain they could find something _she_ could teach _him_ in payment. She opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment the chamber door burst open to reveal a fuming Josephine, ruffles askew, muttering furiously in Antivan. The moment of... Whatever it had been, dissipated instantly, leaving him a little uncertain that it had happened at all.

Some weeks later, Cullen found himself at a loose end- a most uncomfortable predicament. A furious blizzard had engulfed Haven making his planned training sessions impossible. The extra time this yielded made short shrift of his paper work and Josephine had flat out refused to invent new work for him, telling him to 'enjoy his afternoon off'. He skulked back to his room and proceeded to consider ideas for troop movements and operations. He took them to Josephine who simply ordered him out of her office. He tried Cassandra instead, but she insisted she was very busy and practically fled from him, a book pressed tightly to her chest. Wandering aimlessly through the halls of the Chantry, he stopped in front of the Herald's chamber. Perhaps she would be interested in his ideas; he certainly couldn't face the thought of staring at the wall at his chambers for the rest of the day or pitifully attempting to play chess against himself- _again_.

He knocked cautiously, wary of catching her in one of her more difficult moods- though he'd hesitantly say that these were becoming less frequent. Trevelyan called for him to enter, standing quickly up from her desk when he did so, as if he was the last person in Thedas she would have expected to call on her- which was perhaps fair enough. He had begun to explain his presence when he noticed a collection of paper... _Figures_ crowding her desk. His sentence left unfinished, he stepped closer in curiosity. Following his gaze, the Herald let out a startled _'Oh_!', quickly telling him to ignore them; that they were just the products of idle procrastination. Intrigued, Cullen carefully picked one up, making sure to ask permission first and receiving a nod in response. It was indeed fashioned from paper and was shaped into the image of a bird a little like a swan. Surveying the others on her desk, he identified flowers, ships, butterflies, stars and many more equally impressive creations. _'How in Andraste's name did you manage to make these_?' He asked quietly, picking up a paper lotus blossom and turning it carefully. The Herald looked down at her feet and rubbed her the back of her neck as she explained that it was simply folded paper, something she had learnt from a governess when she was young and continued to do -' _childishly',_ she insisted- when taken to the circle. Yet again, he was overcome by a boldness he could not explain; pulling an additional chair over to her desk and taking a seat. When she cocked her head slightly in confusion, he simply said that it seemed they had found something she could teach him and that he was calling in her debt. She stared at him for a moment and he held eye contact even as he began to think that he had made a terrible mistake. But the Herald simply made a faintly bemused noise and took her seat next to him.

Cullen did not pick up the art as quickly as Trevelyan had taken to riding. His hands were too large and clumsy, used to swinging a sword and not any work of intricacy, but the Herald was uncharacteristically patient with him, though she did laugh a little as he fumbled with even the simplest shapes. He reminded her wryly that he had never once laughed at her as she learnt to ride; she smiled a little sadly and said she had ' _never claimed to be a good person_ '. When he reminded her that there were a few dozen refugees in the Hinterlands that would beg to differ, she brushed off the compliment with a ' _hmph_ ' as she always did, never seeming to think them genuine. After a while, Cullen realised that the paper they were using was covered in The handwriting of both Josephine and himself- reports and missives they had sent her. Trevelyan hurriedly insisted that they were all old papers no longer needed and that she didn't want to waste Inquisition resources with fresh sheets. They could, he said, easily justify the expense if it maintained The Herald of Andraste's mental well being. She laughed at that, admitting that she supposed it did. He huffed in frustration as he accidentally tore another sheet. Trevelyan arched an eyebrow, waiting to see if he would surrender, but Cullen would not be beaten and grabbed another piece. He would get it eventually, she insisted, adding that she had an abundance of time in which to practice over the years. Carefully, he probed for further details of her life in the Ostwick Circle and was surprised when she obliged him.

After the... _incident_ in which her powers first manifested, her family had panicked; her siblings ran from her in fear and her parents, insensible at the prospect of having a _Mage_ for a child, had immediately sent for the Templars. For four years, her Grandparents visited once a month, sometimes bringing short notes from her parents that could not have taken more than five minutes to write. Her grandmother's brother, now deceased, had also been a Mage and she and her husband had none of the prejudices or fear that so many others did. Smiling wistfully for the briefest of moments, the Herald explained that she had lived for those visits, counting down the days each month and asking eagerly for news of her parents and siblings, though they showed no interest in her. And then one day, she raced down to the visiting chamber and found ther grandparents weren't there. They had never missed a visit; every month for four years at least one of them, usually both, had been there. It was entirely unfathomable to her. She returned to the chamber each month for half a year before she eventually learnt, through a chance encounter with another visiting family, that her Grandmother had succumbed suddenly to a sleeping sickness and just three days after her death, her husband had followed though no physical problem was apparent.

For weeks she had been inconsolable, until at last her grief had suddenly given way to an icy clarity as she for the first time realised that the rest of her family had not thought to tell her about her grandparents' passing. Running back to the apprentice chambers, she pulled her parents' scribbled notes from their hiding place under her mattress. She had kept them all, treasuring them and reading them over and over. But that day, she read them as though for the first time, finally seeing the cold, distracted nature of the brief words; as though the miles between them and the years without meeting were not distance enough. She had set the letters alight there and then, overcome by grief, despair and, increasingly, _anger_. The other apprentices had screamed and run from the room as the flames spread to bedding and curtains, just as her siblings had done years before. The next thing she knew, she was being dragged by Templars to a chamber used for the confinement of troublesome charges. She was unsure how long she had been kept there, but when she returned the other inhabitants of the Ostwick Circle had been much changed in their attitudes to her. Her fellow apprentices avoided her, the senior mages were at best pitiful, and the Templars... The Templars treated her with constant suspicion, punishing her disproportionately for innocent mistakes. On one occasion she had tripped in the dining hall, sending her plate flying. The Knight Captain- who was particularly cruel by her account- had slapped her across the face there and then. When Trevelyan had dared to talk back, the Templar drew her sword, shouting for back up to restrain her. The Herald was rushed into her harrowing shortly after, although the Grand Enchanter insisted she was not yet ready. It was clear that they wanted her to fail, to be rid of her for good. But of course, she did not.

It was customary in the Ostwick Circle for Mages who had passed their harrowing to be given their own quarters- a change she relished. The Templars continued to find any possible excuse to punish her, often locking her in her chamber for extended periods. It was in these times of isolation that she began to realise that the attitudes of those around her arose, fundamentally, from fear. They certainly all dealt with that fear differently; the majority of the mages avoided her whilst the Templars punished and even abused her. But all of this happened because they were afraid. It seemed to her that there was nothing she could do to change that fear and so, miserable, angry and, above all, _alone_ , she resolved to accept it. If they insisted on fearing her without cause, then she would give them one.

Trevelyan stared down at the desk as she continued her admission, and Cullen was glad; if she looked at him he was unsure what she would see playing across his face. The ache of familiarity he felt as she insisted that she was not, proud of the hostile way she had behaved during those years was simply too strong. But for the Maker's grace, he could have, perhaps _would_ have, been one of those Templars. He had often wondered what had happened to make The Herald so defensive and it seemed that the answer was _people like_ _ **him**_. He felt sick.

She explained that she had been able to find some comfort in spending time with the Circle's youngest residents. The new children that arrived over the years had not learned to fear her, though some had their minds changed as they grew older. She was also unafraid to stand up for the children against Templars and older mages- they hated her anyway. The Grand Enchanter granted her a position teaching simple magical theory to child apprentices, but this kindness was soon taken away by the Knight Commander who claimed that she was 'a _poisonous influence_ ' over young minds. She missed them, and spent more and more time alone in her chambers, studying the limited texts she was permitted and making countless paper creations which she gave to the children when permitted.

When she was in her seventeenth year at the circle, at age 24, she had her first visitor in thirteen years; her younger sister. When she was taken to the Circle her sister had been just five years old, but Trevelyan was just about able to recognise her as she asked how she had been as though mere weeks had passed. Stunned almost to silence, she had asked why she was visiting after all this time. Her sister had explained that things had changed for her, that she had developed a different perspective. Two years previously, she had married a successful Antivan merchant whom she was very much in love with. A year after that, she had given birth to a son. Motherhood, she claimed, had shown her just how wrong their conduct towards the Herald had been; she could not imagine ever abandoning her son as their family had abandoned her- she loved him unconditionally.

Upon reflection, Trevelyan said, she wished she had taken this olive branch and used it to reconnect with her, genuinely contrite, sister. But she had not. She had been incensed by the way her sister seemed to think she could slip back into her life so easily after so long. Moreover, she admitted with clear shame, she had been _jealous_. Though she had not realised until that moment, _she_ wanted a family and those things her sister had that she never could. It was just so _unfair_. The realisation was so sudden- she joked bitterly that she never saw anything until it was right in front of her- that she fled the room in tears, leaving her sister shouting after her in confusion. Her visitor tried to visit twice more, but the Herald refused to see her, partly due to anger and partly to shame. She'd had little to do with the child apprentices for a long time after that. It simply hurt too much. Eventually she had written an apology to her sister, only to realise that she had no idea where to send it. The final years leading up to the rebellion had been quiet but then... well, she said, he knew the rest.

The Herald fell silent with a sigh, finishing the paper lotus she was working on. Cullen did not know what to say and was clearly quiet for too long; she apologised for ' _rambling on_ ' and said she didn't know where her _'hideously self-indulgent outpouring_ ' had come from. Hurriedly, but quietly, he told her that she had no need to be sorry and that he hoped she did not regret telling him. With a small smile, she said that it was too early to tell and he chuckled. At last, he presented a paper bird for inspection and earned a wider smile. She looked at him as though as asking permission and gently took it from him when he nodded. With a wry smile, she asked him ' _not to freak out_ ' and, to his credit, he did not flinch when she enchanted it to flutter slowly around the room- he even laughed after his initial sharp inhale. Trevelyan regarded him shrewdly as the bird landed back on the desk and observed that he did not seem to be 'a typical Templar'. At that his smile failed him. He could not keep the melancholy nor the shame from his voice as he told her that he had been once, but he hoped he had changed.

A feeling he could not place rose from somewhere in his stomach as they held each other's gaze for what could have been seconds or minutes until she suddenly looked away and cleared her throat. Cullen felt himself flushing as he rubbed the back of his neck. He thanked her for her time and shuffled awkwardly to the door, pausing in the threshold to look back at her where she sat, straight backed against the tide of her memories. The Herald looked up from her desk after a moment and seemed surprised to find him still in her doorway. Embarrassed to have been caught staring, he mumbled a goodnight and hurried out of Trevelyan's chambers, wondering what in the Maker's name had passed between them that evening.

...


	3. Chapter 3

...

For a short time, things between Cullen and The Herald seemed to have been transformed by the storm. Just as the landscape of Haven itself appeared almost foreign under the heavy snowfall, his interactions with Trevelyan had moved into uncharted territory. She would seek him out during her days in the village for brief chats and updates on their forces, asking questions he knew without doubt she could have found answers to in reports- yet she came to him and _Maker_ , was he glad. Their exchanges were professional, but this increased sociality on her part was such a change from before and sometimes, _sometimes_ , she would smile or laugh and - Andraste preserve him- Cullen found he spent an increasing amount of time wondering if she'd be coming over to see him again before her next mission.

And then the matter of the Rebel Mages came up.

It was not their first argument at the war table. The contrasting stances of Cullen, Leliana and Josephine, coupled with The Herald's inherent obstinacy had proved a volatile mix. In the early days, it was not uncommon for Trevelyan to storm out of the room, though this had become a rarer occurrence of late. No, it was not the first time a difference of opinion had descended into a full blown altercation, but it _was_ the first time Cullen had felt remorse, had felt guilt, had felt that perhaps something had been lost. He was still staring at the chamber door she had slammed behind her when Leliana announced that there was no more they could do until the Herald had calmed down. Through the strange ache of his hollow anger, Cullen dimly registered Josephine's sigh as she wondered aloud at the reappearance of Trevelyan's rough edges and whatever had hewn them in the first place.

Cullen knew. He had not forgotten what Trevelyan had told him that night- on the contrary, he thought about it often, _very often._ Of course she was reluctant to approach the Templars. In his heart, Cullen truly believed that approaching the Order was a better option than attempting to liaise with the rebel mages, and that The Herald's regrettable past experiences were clouding her judgement. But - and the knowledge stung something fierce- he realised, away from the heat of the argument, that he did not blame her for it in the slightest, even though he still believed her to be misguided. He ran through her account yet again in his mind as he stalked back to his office, reflecting with irritating but insistent introspection on just how easily he could have been one of the Templars that had caused her pain. But her fellow mages had hurt her too and yet she was willing to work with them. He knew he was being unfair in this respect; she had two bad choices and no option but to side with one of them. It was not that she _wanted_ to work with the rebels, it was that she would simply rather work with them than with Templars. _Mages will always stick with mages_ he thought bitterly. Was that not clear from the way she had so quickly become at ease around her new Tevinter companion- trusting the infuriatingly glib Altus so readily when it had taken her so long to show signs of trust in him?

 _Oh._

But she _had_ trusted him. Despite everything in her past telling her not to, she had opened up to a former Templar in a way that, he suspected, she had to few others- and then he had thrown it all back at her by arguing pig-headedly in favour of something he knew would be difficult for her. It must have seemed to her that he had not truly listened to anything she had said, that he had not tried to understand, that he did not _care._

If he was honest with himself- which he tried his hardest to be, though it was seldom a pleasant experience- it was becoming obvious that he had not not come as far in his attempts to overcome his past prejudices as he had thought. Naively, he had fallen into the trap of thinking -because he had helped Circle mages to escape the violence of Kirkwall after the Chantry explosion, had left the Templars and was now working alongside mages- even becoming increasingly at ease with magic- that he had moved past his ignorance. But he clearly still had a way to go- and yet he had the nerve to suggest that _Trevelyan_ was being unduly influenced by her past experiences? He still had so much to learn.

He sighed, massaging his temples as he felt another headache growing. His thoughts turned to apologising- something he was not especially practised at though Maker knew he had endless reasons to be. He needed to show her not only that he was sorry for behaving like an arse at the war table, but that he _had_ listened and that he _did_ care- that he valued the time they had spent together and had truly taken it to heart. After a good while spent staring at his desk, scrambling for a method of apology and even briefly considering asking Cassandra for advice (though he ultimately decided against this) he simply went with the best of his poor crop of ideas. Needing near desperately to do _something,_ even if it proved inadequate, simply to combat the guilt rising within him like fluid in his lungs, he seized a stack of paper and searched his clouded mind for the guidance Trevelyan had given him that snowy evening. After several dozen crude attempts, he produced a paper bird he was surprisingly happy with. As neatly as he could in his habitual scrawl, Cullen carefully inked " _I am sorry- C_ _"_ on the wing. Unhelpful thoughts clamored to point out the somewhat lacklustre phrasing of the message, but he shoved them aside, hoping that sincerity would prove enough. He waited until he knew the Herald would be at dinner to leave his offering on her desk, rushing back out of her chamber before his courage failed him and he could snatch it back. This cowardice was deeply unbecoming of the Commander of the Inquisition. _Maker,_ what was she doing to him?

Trevelyan gave no indication that she had received his apology the next day at the war council, though he knew she must have. She rarely looked him in the eye, although she was much calmer and perfectly civil. He had hardly expected to be instantly forgiven because of such a small gesture, it was enough that she no longer seemed overtly angry with him. When she announced that she would be leaving for Redcliffe Castle later that day she seemed to be testing him, staring a challenge with her head tilted high in defiance. He of course did not object and this seemed to satisfy her, though she kept her expression cool. He did, naturally, still think this to be a mistake and knew that he would worry for The Hera- for _the party_ whilst they were away. But he knew he had to respect her judgement, to _trust_ her to succeed and come back to hi- to _them_. Cullen knew Trevelyan did not believe herself to be blessed by either the Maker or his Bride, but he himself found that, as he watched the party ride away, his overwhelming feeling was not doubt but _faith_.

When he returned to his tent that evening, bone weary and aching from the Frostbacks' chill, he stopped dead midway through unbuckling his armor. On his desk sat a small paper lion, intricately folded from a golden sheet. Reverently, he picked it up, scared to crush it in his clumsy soldier's hands. Upon the flank in a flowing script were the words " _Me too_ _"_ _._

 _…_ _.._

 _ **I did write more than this, but I couldn't get to a decent ending and when I tried the pacing was way way off- so I just left it in this nice pre-relationship limbo out of laziness.**_  
 _ **I have finally vomited my first DA fic onto the web.**_


End file.
